Of all the Blogs I Think About These Days, perhaps none has made itself quite as indispensable as David Roth’s examination of our alternately wet and dry president. It’s basically my go-to reference for every one of Donald Trump’s public appearances, from manic derangement (wet) to listless boredom (dry). But with all due respect to Roth, the only person I can think of who’d make a Vassar joke while standing around in sub-zero temperatures, I’d like to submit a third state of Trumpian being — neither wet, nor dry, but perhaps more true to his deepest, innermost self.
Let’s call it “Crusty.”
Crusty Trump is the one we almost never see. We mostly only ever hear about him after he does something particularly obnoxious from behind closed doors, away from the TV cameras and cheering crowds and teleprompters; He’s the one who says things like “shithole countries” and “grab ‘em by the pussy” and, according to The Atlantic this week, calls dead soldiers “suckers.” Crusty Trump has Wet Trump’s chaotic hubris without the performative glee. He has Dry Trump’s transparent inability to be interested in anything other than himself, but is still awake enough to be a total dick about it. Crusty Trump is, above all else, an asshole. Not because he thinks it’ll rile up his base, or because he’s bored with reading prepared remarks, but because that’s just who he is: a venomous cretin whose closest approximation of joy is making other people almost as miserable as himself.
I’ve been thinking about Crusty Trump lately thanks to that Atlantic piece, and the subsequent wagon-circling from the president’s team of proctological lamprey eels. What I’ve come to realize about Crusty Trump is that he is wholly inconsequential. Attention-grabbing? Sure. Nauseating? I suppose. But does he actually matter? Does he move the needle at all? Each time we learn of some new horrific bout of bunkerfuhrer behavior from Crusty Trump, do we gain anything useful, or actionable, or insightful about the president’s innermost workings? Nah.
There’s something to be said for being so irredeemably shitty that your irredeemable shittiness becomes inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Still, I humbly offer “Crusty Trump” as another branch in the president’s withered taxonomical tree. Use it as you see fit.
In any case…
🎶 Are you ready for some lip service? 🎶
It’s been four years since the NFL essentially turned Colin Kaepernick into an athletic pariah (for racist white folks), all because he had the audacity to protest the fact that cops are allowed to kill Black people in this country without consequence.
Well, it’s a brave new world, and a brave new era for socially conscious sports leagues like the NFL, which bravely announced plans this week to bravely stand on the right side of history by writing “end racism” in stadium endzones. That should do it!
Donald Trump Jr.’s Instagram page remains the undefeated heavyweight champion of internet derangement.
Somehow the 40-something billionaire son of the president of the United States has the same chaotic posting energy as your great aunt on Facebook. I love it.
The wind beneath my boneless wings
Not since “what’s up bootlickers?” has municipal governance so adequately captured part of my attention for a limited period of time as this week’s Lincoln City Council meeting, where Nebraskan Ander Christensen forced the powers that be to reckon with the serious issues of the day.
This is the start of something big. I can feel it.
Tired: Jet fuel can’t melt steel beams…
It’s honestly incredible that this man once was the only thing standing in between our precious computer data and total viral annihilation.
…And now, time for a station break…
Do I need new shoes? What should I get?
Anyway, back to your regularly scheduled programming
Colton Burpo, eat your heart out
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of
There’s a lot of people who want you to believe that post-pandemic New York City is OVER. But take it from me, folks, it’s just getting started.
Have a great Labor Day weekend, everyone! I recommend spending some time in a
Did anything make you say “Man, what the hell?” this week? Perhaps out loud to a roommate, loved one, or disinterested household pet/plant? Misery loves company, so share your personal what the hells in the comments below!
(pic via Pizza Hut – Cheesus crust I’m hungry!)